


A Common Condition

by highlyfunctioning_malfoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Predator/Prey, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, submissive John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highlyfunctioning_malfoy/pseuds/highlyfunctioning_malfoy
Summary: Alternate universe of Sherlock and John meeting with Sherlock who has been committed to Sherrinford Institute. Sherlock's sociopathic nature and high intelligence has been honed by the British government, so he has much less empathy.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken a long break from writing and finally feel that spark again. I had written a few pages of this a few years ago and decided to work on it. First time ever posting any writing. 
> 
> I don't own any of these characters. Obviously.

**Chapter 1**

The ward smelled of disinfectant, strong enough to nearly burn a person’s olfactory receptors. John walked the long corridor. The doors that lined the corridor were heavy metal. Behind each door contained a person deemed too dangerous to walk freely in society. It was eerily quiet, and John could hear the click of his shoes against the polished concrete floor. He glanced down at the chart he held in his hand again:  _ unit 221, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, age 27, antisocial personality disorder, genius level intelligence, eidetic memory, no known diagnosed allergies, history of substance use, history of nicotine use, yearly physical examination needed.  _

When he arrived at the door of unit 221, he took a deep breath. He took his key card from the retractable key chain at his hip and scanned it, granting him access. His eyes were met with a man seated cross legged in the direct center of the room. It wasn’t a bad looking room, sparse, but with most creature comforts. It had a bed, toilet, sink, desk, chair, paper, writing utensils, books, even a violin. John brought his eye again to the man seated before him. His head was down, a mass of black curls blocked the view of his face. 

John cleared his throat, “Er, hello, I’m Dr. Watson. Pleasure to – “

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?”

John was thoroughly confused. The man before him, who had not even glanced at John, let alone met him before to know that John was a soldier in Afghanistan. 

The patient finally looked up at him and John was stunned to find a pair of glorious eyes like a galaxy looking back at him – not a single color but a mixture of blues, greens, and silver. He watches the pupils constrict from the light change and nearly gasps at the beauty of the long, angular face staring at him. The alabaster skin is flawless, sinfully sculpted cupid’s bow lips, razor sharp cheekbones, long straight nose – John’s mind is derailed. 

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John has to take a gulp of air before speaking, “Af-Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…?” 

“Don’t you have an examination to complete Dr. Watson?” He says with a huff.

“Well, yes Mr. Holmes, but – “

“Sherlock. I prefer Sherlock.”

“Sherlock. Sorry. Could you just tell me how you knew that?” 

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes, “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. The scar along the side of your head can only be from the graze of a bullet. You favor your left side, probable past injury. Most likely from additional gun fire. Military man, gunfire wounds, wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock loudly enunciates the ‘k’ sound on the end of Iraq, and lowers his head again, mop of curls falling into his eyes. 

John takes a breath, “That … was amazing.” 

Sherlock quickly looks up, “Do you think so?” 

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.” Sherlock says, his eyes bright.

“What do people normally say?”

“’Piss off!’”

Time lapses for a moment, Sherlock and John just staring at each other. John’s heart starts to thud in his chest. 

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock says softly, looking up at John from beneath his lashes.

“Nope, you were spot on.” John nearly whispers. 

John pauses, and thinks if he should say this next bit aloud to himself.

“Go on, I know you want to ask, it’s not in the chart they give to the MD’s.” Sherlock all but reads his mind.

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock gets up and gestures to the chair next to his bed, and flops down on the bed himself. John gets a view of his body, and it matches his glorious face. Long and lithe, at least a head taller than himself, covered in that lovely alabaster skin. He’s wearing a short sleeve white t-shirt and pajama bottoms. John can see defined but sinewy bicep muscles and what looks like self-harm scars and burn marks along both his arms when Sherlock puts his arms behind his head, and is surprised that Sherlock doesn’t hide them. 

Sherlock can see John looking at his arms. “Why bother,” He states simply. “I was young when I did those,” gesturing to the long lines crisscrossing his arms, “and those were from experiments,” gesturing to the burn marks. 

John has an overwhelming surge of desire to protect Sherlock. He attempts to stamp it down and try to remain neutral. He’s a physician, he’s here to do a job. He’s not here to create a relationship with his patients. 

“So,” John clears his throat, and Sherlock stares without emotion at him from the bed. John repeats, “Why are you here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock begins what seems like a prepared speech, “As you can see, I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth. I've used my abilities and they’ve gotten me into trouble. I - “ Sherlock glances at Dr. Watson, and pauses. His ocean blue eyes are focused solely on him. He’s not glancing at his watch, or his chart, or otherwise inattentive, like the other doctors who have come to examine him. He’s not treating him like a subject to be examined; he’s actively listening to his patient.

“You’re different.” Sherlock states. Suddenly sitting up, his head cocked to one side. 

John's eyes are transfixed on him. Sherlock's face is much closer than before. His iridescent eyes boring into John's. An errant curl falls into his face. Without thinking, John pushes the curl away from Sherlock's eyes. The younger man closes his eyes and leans into the touch. When he reopens his eyes, it's almost predatory.

“Don't you have to examine me, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock's deep voice goes an octave lower. 

John clears his throat, “Er, yes. Let's get on with that.” John rubs the back of his head and checks the chart’s paperwork, attempting to clear his head. 

“Any current pain?” 

“No.”

“Good,” John moves to the side of the bed, pulling his stethoscope with him. He places the scope on the right side of Sherlock's chest. 

“Deep breath,” John listens to Sherlock's steady inhale and exhale. He moves the stethoscope to his left lung. “Again,” and repeats the process on Sherlock's back. John places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and lets his fingers trail to his wrist.

“I need to take your pulse.” John places his fingers against the pulse point in Sherlock’s wrist. It’s a steady heartbeat, slightly elevated. Which could be the reason why Sherlock’s eyes are dilated as well. John loses track of the beats he had been counting, as Sherlock locks his verdigris eyes on his own ocean blue ones. Sherlock places his opposite hand on the doctor’s wrist, feeling his pulse point as well. 

“You know the signs of attraction. Don’t you, Dr. Watson? Elevated pulse, dilated pupils, involuntary swallowing, leaning forward towards the object of your desire…” Sherlock leans forward more, until their faces are mere inches away, their shared breath mingling. 

John licks his lips. A little voice in the back of his head is telling him to stop this now, but another voice is yelling at him to kiss the otherworldly creature in front of him. He looks for a sign. 

“I know you want to, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock’s voice has impossibly gone down another octave, low and thundering. He closes his eyes and leans further still but hesitates from actually placing his lips on John’s. 

John closes his eyes. He leans impossibly close to the raven haired man, lips ghosting Sherlock’s cupid’s bow mouth. John inhales and it clears his mind just enough to stop him from kissing the  _ inmate _ sitting in front of him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes and wrenches himself away. “I- I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I just did that,” he whispers the last part to himself. 

Sherlock has finally opened his eyes and continues to stare predatorily at the doctor. “Oh no, Dr. Watson. I apologize. I should never have put you in that situation.” His contrite words don’t match his affect at all. 

John moves the chair a few centimeters away from Sherlock. He clears his throat, “I, er, I need to complete your exam,” he says, keeping his eyes down cast. John’s breathing had been coming in short gasps and his heart continued to thunder in his chest. He took a deep breath and looked at his clipboard. John finished the exam in a perfunctory manner, not looking Sherlock in the eye again. 

Sherlock cooperated with the doctor’s nearly mechanical exam. He was unhappy that he might have scared the doctor away. He schooled his features into a practiced look of apology once the doctor was finished and documenting his notes. He touched the blonde man’s arm. “I truly do apologize Dr. Watson. I hope this doesn’t put a damper on things. I had rather hoped you would visit me again. I enjoy your company immensely. And now that I am thinking about it, I have had a pain in my abdomen that might require monitoring.” 

John looked up at him - a mistake. He found the raven haired man devastatingly attractive. He cleared his throat again, “I’ll, um, order some blood tests, and follow up with you next week,” and with that John stood.

Sherlock looked up at the doctor through his thick lashes, “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I look forward to it.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so anyone who's reading this knows, I will be updating, just infrequently. Life is pretty busy for me right now. Unfortunately this chapter is much shorter, but it seemed like a good place to leave off. Thanks for reading and leaving kudos though! ~A

The following day, John was doing his rounds and his pace faltered as he walked past unit 221. He hesitated at the door, and even though it didn’t have a window, it was like he could feel the presence of the extraordinary man emanating through the door. He couldn’t get the man out of his head, and had thought about him the rest of the day, on his way home, and even late into the night while John laid in bed. However, today he needed to focus on the rest of the patients he had to see. John straightened his back in a military fashion, and turned to continue his walk down the hall to his next patient.  
***  
Sherlock was lying in his bed, hands in a praying position beneath his chin, eyes closed, as he worked in his mind palace. He had created a small room for the doctor, and filled it with his deductions and observations. Dr. John Watson was fascinating. He had seen his full name on the ID key card at his hip when the doctor came to examine him. The doctor had been the one person in such a long time that had complimented Sherlock, instead of throwing insults and sometimes objects at him when he had deduced something about their character. Sherlock even took the time to decorate the room. He had placed a large, grey, comfortable looking armchair in the corner, complete with a Union Jack pillow to represent the doctor’s military history. Next to the armchair, was a brick fireplace, and in front of the fireplace an ornate burgundy colored rug. On the other side of the fireplace was another chair, this one black leather and silver metal, for Sherlock to sit in while he visited John’s room. Next to his chair was a small bookshelf. These books would contain his notes on Dr. Watson. He was sure he would add to the room as time went on.  
In his mind palace, Sherlock sat in the leather chair, and thought about the doctor’s actions when Sherlock had played with his attraction to him. John was obviously bisexual, but withheld himself from kissing Sherlock due to the typical patient-doctor relationship ethics that forbade sexual relations between the two. Sherlock smiled at the thought of how close he had gotten. He had to admit, the doctor was an attractive man, with his blonde hair flecked with grey, blue eyes like an ocean, and button nose. He was about 5 inches taller than John, but John was more muscular. He definitely still worked out since he had been discharged from the British Armed Forces.  
Sherlock sighed as he walked out of John’s room, to the entry hall of his mind palace. He opened his eyes to the real world, and sat up on his bed. The doctor wouldn’t be back for a week. He had to think of something to get him back sooner. He got up and lifted his violin off the desk next to his bed. Placing the instrument on his shoulder, bow upon the strings, he ran through a list of injuries he could inflict upon himself to look like an accident that would not cause him much inconvenience. He didn’t have anywhere to go, so a broken toe wouldn’t cause him much trouble. He would tell the doctor that his stack of books fell on his foot. He nodded to himself, then began to play a piece by Bach.  
***  
John sat in the employee lounge eating his lunch. He sat across from another physician who was a psychiatrist for his ward. Mike Stamford was a friendly guy, with a round stomach, kind brown eyes, and curly brown hair. John didn’t know how a nice guy like Mike was able to work with these patients and still keep such a cheery disposition. Mike had been working at Sherrinford for about a few years already.  
John still had a certain curly headed sociopath on his mind. “Mike,” he began. “I had a question about a patient. Have you ever seen Mr. Holmes for a psych consult?”  
Mike’s face cracked into a grin. “Ah, yes. Did he tell you your whole life story with just a glance at you?”  
“Well, yeah, basically,” answered John, who decided to pick at his food to feign disinterest.  
“Yup, he’s a tricky one. I’ve not had much success with him psychiatrically, but he’s definitely an interesting case.”  
“Did you ever get the full story of why he’s here?” asked John.  
“Yeah, bit of a shock really. Sherlock’s got a brother that works in the British government. He recommended him to work with MI6, and well… It didn’t go well. He ended up shooting a man during a mission that wasn’t a part of the mission.”  
John nodded, saying, “Ah, I see. Seems a bit harsh to put him here though.”  
Mike chuckled at this, “Well he was also a bit of an amateur detective before working for MI6. Doing consults for the He wouldn’t do well in regular prison, and I think Mycroft can keep a better eye on him here.”  
“Who’s Mycroft?” John asked.  
“His brother,” Mike replied. “He comes to visit now and then -- gives Sherlock books, things for his violin and such, but I don’t think they’ve ever really got on much.”  
“Huh,” John said, noncommittally. He looked down and crumbled up the paper from his sandwich. He definitely wanted to see Sherlock again. This time he wouldn’t be so caught off guard.


End file.
